


need the sun to break

by itsrosencrantz



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: During Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Lorenz Week 2020, M/M, Minor Marianne von Edmund/Hilda Valentine Goneril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26233318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsrosencrantz/pseuds/itsrosencrantz
Summary: A series of prompts set in one universe, showing moments in time beginning during the timeskip and ending post-war, centered around Lorenz.
Relationships: Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 47
Collections: Lorenz Week 2020





	1. ROSE: revelry

**Author's Note:**

> The prompts are from Lorenz Week 2020 on Twitter! The rating will change as days are added if needed. The prompt list:
> 
> Sept 1 - Tues - Rose/Revelry/Tea  
> Sept 2 - Wed - Iris/Reason and Faith/Education  
> Sept 3 - Thurs - Foxglove/Lineage/Crests and Relics  
> Sept 4 - Fri - Purple columbine/Redemption/Growth  
> Sept 5 - Sat - Carnation/Fashion/Alternate Time Period  
> Sept 6 - Sun - Edelweiss/Ideals/Loyalty  
> Sept 7 - Mon - Lavender/Romance/Exploration
> 
> https://twitter.com/lorenzweek

There is never enough wine at a party to balance the politics.

As a child, Lorenz had been overjoyed to be allowed to dress up and mingle with his parents' friends. He'd felt very grown up and sophisticated in his formal wear, helped along by being spoken to with what he wouldn't come to recognize was indulgence until much later in life. Most of the fondest memories of his childhood have a ball as a backdrop; watching women's gowns swirl and their jewelry sparkle, admiring the elegant byplay between a man leading a woman to the dance floor and then escorting her off. Standing on the fringes of it, eagerly anticipating the day he would be part of that bright, glittering world, Lorenz could not have imagined anything he would want more.

That enthusiasm for the fantastic world he'd so admired has waned in adulthood, but there is a war to blame for that as much as anything else. What he had failed to notice as a child, swept up in the grandeur as he was, he sees clearly now - more than that, he participates actively in it. He is political piece and pawn all in one, beholden to his family's name and responsibility, though more and more his eyes open to a wider world than the one he was raised in - and as they do, the tarnish begins to show through the gild.

Therefore: there is never enough wine at a party to balance the politics.

The inappropriateness of having a party at all in the midst of a war is not lost on him, but it is a nobleman's wife's birthday, and nothing so gauche as a _war_ could ever be enough to deter a celebration centered around this woman in particular. Lorenz can almost admire her for it, in a terrible sort of way; she is a woman who knows precisely what she wants, and anyone who stands in the way of that can be damned.

On the field of battle, she would likely have been quite the asset.

The longer he is among these people with their stiff, smiling faces and affected laughter, however, the more taut the ball of tension in his chest grows. He has been sipping from the same glass of wine for the better part of the night, going through the motions of greeting and being greeted, making conversation that ignores the looming specter of the war around him - as is polite, of course, for a man enjoying a night in society. Each word past his lips burns his mouth and those he cannot say slip back down his throat, a syrup-slow slide that settles in his stomach like shame, but this, too, must be borne.

He brings his wineglass to his mouth, his eyes drifting to the musicians as they settle into their seats and begin their warm ups. Dancing, soon, then; a pity, because he loves to dance, but he hasn't felt much like revelry these days. Or perhaps he simply does not feel like revelry in this setting, even as beautiful as it is, because he knows that the finery and gloss are only on the surface. If he ran his nail along the edge of his line of vision, he would see the beautiful imagery peel away and he knows precisely what would be left.

It is a very different world he finds himself in from the one he imagined as a boy.

"That's a very serious look you have on your face. Narrowing down prospects for a dance partner?"

Lorenz's gaze slides to the man beside him, the usual flare of annoyance burning bright, but perhaps not as bright as it usually does. He doesn't enjoy being maudlin, but everything is a little dimmed these days, and it appears that rings true even for his longstanding rivalry with the largest pebble he's ever had the misfortune of finding in his boot.

(Alternatively, he is growing more tolerant of Claude von Riegan, but he has certainly not had enough wine to acknowledge the possibility of _that_ , even in his own thoughts.)

After a moment's scrutiny, he takes the sip of wine he intended, savoring it for a touch longer than necessary before he replies. "I did not expect to see you here, Claude."

Claude's hands are free, unsurprisingly. While he's dined with him any number of times over their acquaintance, he can't say that he's ever seen Claude drink anything stronger than tea, and he begins to suspect he never will.

\-- See it, that is.

"Back at you." Out of the corner of his eye, Lorenz can see the smile settle onto Claude's face. "I thought this was more your parents' kind of thing."

"Yes, well." Lorenz shifts slightly, setting his wineglass down on the table behind him. "We all have our parts we must play. My parents were unfortunately unable to accept the Countess' gracious invitation, and so here I am. Are you disappointed?"

Their eyes meet, Lorenz's cool and questioning, Claude's bright and amused.

"I might be," Claude says, offering a hand as the first few notes of music begin to drift over them, "If you don't want to dance."

Lorenz blinks once, slow, and looks down his nose at the offered hand. In the year since Edelgard began her march across the continent, leaving destruction and fear and helplessness in her wake, Lorenz has had little opportunity to speak to Claude one-on-one. His family's position, geographically and politically, has made too-frequent communication inadvisable at best and nearly impossible in practice. Not that Lorenz has had much at all to say to Claude that would require regular correspondence - anything he needs to communicate is sensitive enough that he would not want it falling in the wrong hands, whether on its way out of the Gloucester estate or when the reply came back in, as alarming a thought as it is - but the man is the leader of the Leicester Alliance. His presence is felt everywhere and nowhere at once, his time more valuable than the finest silk being worn in this very room; to have him here now...

There is something - or someone - at this party worth his time. There must be, because Lorenz is coming to understand him better, now, and for all of his faults, Claude is not reckless with the responsibility placed upon him. Once upon a time, Lorenz was sure he would be, but he has been humbled into admitting that his leadership, even young and untried as he is, may very well be what is keeping the Alliance from crumbling to ruin beneath the heel of the Adrestian Empire. 

Gloucester had been the first to be invaded. For as long as he lives, he will never forget that, and here Claude stands - extending his hand - teasing him about a dance.

It occurs to him that he has been silent too long, and he can feel the heat of his embarrassment flushing across his cheeks. 

"I am not going to dance with you, von Riegan." His tone is clipped, but more with exasperation than actual annoyance. "I will not be your accomplice in making a scene."

Claude laughs, low and - if Lorenz may flatter himself - a touch artificially. (He's very good at spotting that sort of thing these days.) "Not willingly, that's for sure. But how do you know I don't just want to dance with you?"

"Oh, I'm certain you do," he returns, his tone smug. "Nevertheless, I must decline. There are ladies in want of a partner, and if you are so determined to dance, I recommend that you follow my example and make yourself agreeable to one of them."

As he speaks, Lorenz reaches up to smooth his awkwardly long cap of hair back into place, despite not a wisp of it actually being unkempt. He's been doing that more and more lately, self-conscious without wanting to admit to it, as he impatiently waits for it to grow past its ungainly stage and into something more than vaguely fashionable. It is... a frivolity during war, he knows, to care so much about his appearance, but in times of great strife and the slow-unfurling of one's own deepest horrors, focusing on something so ultimately insignificant has become a dear comfort. He is only human, after all.

There is a cluster of young ladies across the room, their eyes keen and already sweeping the assembled for likely partners, and Lorenz's smile slides onto his face - as easy and polished as anyone else's in the room, and equally perfunctory, he imagines. Before he has made it more than three steps, however, Claude calls his name, and he stills, glancing over his shoulder with one eyebrow arched.

"Save room on your dance card when this is all over," Claude says, his hands laced behind his head, posture relaxed. "I'm not giving up."

_When this is all over,_ he says, as though there can be certainty in this world of that sort - certainty that the war will end, that they will both live to see it through, that they will be standing on the same side for one to offer his hand and the other to take it. Lorenz's smile falls for just a moment, his eyes widening in surprise, and then something more genuine softens his face as he realizes that he almost believes him. 

More than that, he _wants_ to believe him. The realization is a warm ember in his chest, the first spark of something good in more days than he cares to acknowledge, and he recognizes it for what it is: hope.

His breath leaves him in a huff that is not quite a laugh, and he returns, "If you are lucky, perhaps I will."


	2. IRIS: Reason and Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic reference to a wound in this chapter.

Blood runs down his armor in rivulets, softening to a delicate pink by the time it reaches a joint and disappears into the crevice. The blood is not his own - a small comfort, in a time like this - or at least it is not mostly his own. He has a cut over his brow from a bit of debris caught him _unaware_ , the result of a powerful blast of magic that left his comrade far worse off than simply unaware. It has long since scabbed over, blood dried to his face and flaking loose with every movement of his mount from where he smeared it impatiently out of his eyes with a gloved hand in the thick of battle. He looks a fright, he knows.

He is lucky. 

Goneril territory has never been a stranger to skirmishes, though in years past they had come from Almyra. It's been quiet all through the war on that front, however - a blessing, if an oddly suspicious one. Lorenz has thought more than once that if Almyra truly intended to invade Fódlan and strike a crippling blow against their numbers, a good time to do so would be when the Alliance was fighting not only the Empire but also itself, and yet there has been no move made. He has his suspicions on why, but has spoken to no one of them; they are smoke between his fingers, a blurred half-conclusion that he is not ready to come to yet, but equally unwilling to pass along to his father for actual pursuit and investigation.

There is treachery in that, he supposes, but he does not have the time to indulge in worrying about it. For now, his priority is finding Holst among the soldiers on the field and getting the update his father had directed him to fetch on his way back to Gloucester, and anything else that he has been speculating on in years past will simply have to wait. 

In pursuit of Holst, he slows his mount to address a squire, but receives no satisfactory answer. He is overheard, however, by a young man with an armload of bandages, who tells him that General Holst is in a medic tent three down.

Alarmed, because it takes quite a wound to get Holst to slow down long enough to be treated, much less confined to a tent, Lorenz thanks him and heads toward the tent in question. He slides free from his mare with an apologetic kiss to her cheek, promising he will attend her shortly, and trusts her to remain in place until he can.

Pushing through the tent flap, he calls, "Holst?" in a voice drawn taut with concern.

The man in question is seated on the edge of a cot, his legs spread wide and his head down between them. Pieces of his armor are strewn along the ground, and he is alone - whether that surprises Lorenz or not he cannot quite say, as from where he stands, the shadows cast over his friend prevent him from seeing how dire his injuries are. He steps inside, speaking as he steps over a gauntlet and around a pauldron.

"Are your injuries severe? It is not like you to sit and rest, and so I- _ah_ ," he startles himself into silence, eyes widening as Holst's head lifts and he sees how haggard and pale he is. "Holst." 

Now that he has straightened, Lorenz sees why he is so ashen and so still - bandages are wrapped around his shoulder thickly, and even so, he can see the slight discoloration that must mean the wound was still bleeding when they were applied. He feels almost light headed for a moment as he extends a hand, fingers outstretched, toward the wound; no wonder his pauldron had been removed. 

His _arm_ had likely nearly been removed.

"I've had worse," Holst says cheerfully, slapping his knee with the hand not attached to his grievously wounded shoulder. "You look like you're going to faint, Gloucester. That, or rip me a new one. Hell of a way to greet somebody."

He gathers himself in the time it takes to blink twice, curling his hand back toward his chest and taking a careful breath. As terrible as the injury looks, Holst is clearly already being tended and if he is able to run his mouth to tease, he will no doubt be fine. It is a harrowing reminder of the reality they live in now, as though any of them need it. He is abruptly made aware, once again, how quickly everything that he cherishes, everyone that he loves, could be wrenched from the world in the space of a breath, and he is _angry_.

Anger does nothing for him here, though. He releases that careful breath, hoping that Holst does not notice that it shakes on the exhale, and curls his hand against his chest. "You deserve a scolding for lounging here pretending you've one foot in the grave," he says lightly, his eyes anything but. "It isn't as though you were unaware I would be arriving."

"Yeah, sorry about that." Holst nods toward his armor, his eyes roving over the scorch residue from a well-aimed spell. "Wasn't expecting company of _that_ kind. Good thing you ride in armor, huh? Might have had to send a really different letter home to your parents if you hadn't."

"Who doesn't ride in armor anymore?" He murmurs, gaze dropping to the bandage once more. The color on it has deepened, and so does his frown. "Do you know the source of this attack? I did not see the banner."

"Working on that. It wasn't Almyra," he says, his hand creeping up over his chest, blunted fingers skimming over his dressings. "Could be Empire, but I don't remember seeing a banner, either. Came up through Hrym, so that's most likely. Once we have some more information, we'll pass it along to Claude. Speaking of, I've got something for you."

"Ah, yes." Lorenz watches him twist to grab his discarded undershirt, and doesn't miss the pain that ripples over his face. "Got a couple letters. One for the Count, one for you."

He offers them, and part of Lorenz recoils to see the blood soaking into the edges of the envelopes. He accepts them nonetheless, recognizing Claude's hurried script on the first - intended for his father - and the same on the second. After a moment's deliberation, he sets them down on the cot, and begins to remove his gauntlet with swift, precise motions. It joins the letters a moment later, and as Holst eyes him warily, Lorenz turns his palm out toward his friend.

"May I?" He asks, even as he's already settling his hand over the wound. Holst tries to lean back reflexively, and Lorenz's tone sharpens. "Stop. I'm not as gifted in Faith as I am Reason, and you wouldn't want me to make a mistake, would you?"

Holst does still, but not without complaint. "Who asked you to do anything to begin with? I've already been poked and prodded more than Hilda's dress form was last time she got a new outfit."

Lorenz can't help but smile, his gaze going a little unfocused as he diverts his attention into calling Faith magic to his fingertips. "I'm so proud of you for no longer calling it her headless doll," he murmurs, warmth gathering in his fingertips as he pulls from something small and flickering deep inside of himself.

The pins and needles of a long-asleep limb awakening travel up his arm, and he can feel the vague warmth of the blood from Holst's wound against the skin of his hand. His eyes drift to half mast and he matches his breathing to his friend's, unconsciously bending at the waist to bring himself closer, press his palm more firmly inward as he guides the magic.It is exhausting in an entirely different way from wielding his lance or even casting using Reason. He wonders why that is.

_Why_ is it that harm comes so much more naturally from his hands than healing? Why can he summon Sagittae with barely the flicker of an eyelid, but calling upon Faith chafes?

His tenuous connection to his magic sputters and dies, and Lorenz keeps his hand in place a moment or two longer, closing his eyes as he curls his fingers inward. 

"That will have to do," he says, withdrawing and turning his palm down, shielding the faint pink hue from either of their gazes. He wipes his hand clean on his trousers, tone becoming brisk. "I'm certain you reopened it by being rash, so just sit still and don't cause trouble for anyone else for an evening. Thank you for protecting the missives."

He tucks the letters away for safety, lingering at Holst's side until he's laughed at for his concern. 

"Get going. I'll keep you updated." Before he can follow direction, however, Holst grasps his hand and squeezes. "Travel safe."

With a wan smile, Lorenz squeezes back. "But of course."


	3. FOXGLOVE: Lineage/Relics and Crests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of graves due to war, no major or minor character death.

Five years.

The continent has been ravaged by a war the likes it has not seen for centuries, and Edelgard's onslaught shows no signs of slowing. Time passes both too quickly to grasp between his hands and so slowly that each day feels drawn into weeks' worth of frustration and suffering. And even so, as weary as he's grown in body and heart, he is one of the privileged few in this war; he is not starving, not cold, not terrified of losing his home and watching his family be turned into the streets with no where to go. He is still sound of mind and capable of lifting his lance, which is more than he can say for those he has seen struck down before their time, lost to a war that marches steadily on and soaks the fields with blood for what?

For whose ambitions?

He has walked between lines of raised mounds of earth and mourned for those lost regardless of which side they fell on; he has wondered if, when forced to retreat, his enemies provided the same sort of dignity and grief for the Alliance's dead. He hopes so, but hope is a fragile thing anymore, battered and misshapen as it has become with enemies both outward and within. The lords of the Alliance squabble amongst one another and play petty games of power even now, and it fills him with a quiet, cold sort of rage to have one foot in the war room and one foot on the field of battle, and to understand both sides of it and be helpless to sway either with any sort of finality.

He watches people's lives be wrenched away from them with weapon in hand, and he finds himself thinking at least they are dead when he sees the way those left behind are wounded again and again without ever having raised arms. Siblings and parents and children never come home, villages are gutted - ransacked for their food, their medical supplies, warm places to sleep. If not the Empire taking advantage of its enemies, it is _Do you have anything you could volunteer to the Alliance?_ and though the answer is no, the people rally and find more to give, every time. Lorenz's heart aches when the rains flood them out and they spend a week longer marching than they had intended, and a small village takes them in and breaks bread with them without ever once pointing out the obvious: they have nothing to spare, and they spare it anyhow.

This is the side of governing he would never have learnt in a book, and while he cannot be thankful for war, he will at least not waste the opportunity to critically examine his place in the events as they unfold and where he can strive to do better. The obligation has always been there, of course, because where there is privilege there must always be a keen awareness of both its advantages and all those people who do not enjoy them, but obligation has become reality, and reality requires a call to action.

The Gloucester family has enjoyed comfort, power, and authority for as long as its history has been recorded. Not as any sort of ruling house, of course - even before the split from the Empire, the Gloucester family had been well-established, but never that - but they have always been in a position to do good. It has been Lorenz's firm belief for his entire life that each generation must seek to be better than the last; that where a father improves, a son must perfect, and so on down the family line. The problem with this, of course, lies in the determination of what is _better_.

Five years -

Five years Lorenz has fought on the front lines, despite his father's disapproval of his vigorous involvement in the war, and he has watched the slow unfurling of what Hermann Gloucester's leadership truly is: survival at the expense of the governed. Lorenz is not naive enough to think that there could be an easy way through a war by any means, but he knows what is right and just, and every day it becomes more difficult to convince himself not to confront his father directly. Though Gloucester has not gone so far as to openly support the Empire, the Count's leanings are well known from the nobility down to the foot soldiers putting their lives on the line under his family's banner, and Lorenz can hardly bear it.

He closes his eyes, his grip on Thyrsus firming, and considers its weight. His father never wielded it; he'd been raised a politician and so raised his son as one as well, because none of them could have foreseen that the longstanding fissures in in their country would widen to chasms to make room for chaos and misery in their lifetimes. The School of Sorcery, even though he withdrew, followed by Garreg Mach - they were forms of a finishing school to his father, paces to have Lorenz put through because it was the done thing, but it was always expected for him to succeed his father's place at the Roundtable hand-in-hand with Gloucester surpassing Riegan in the role of leadership.

How much he had wanted that, once. He had been able to _taste_ the bitter disappointment when Duke Oswald had produced Claude and named him his heir; everything that he had been striving toward, dangling just outside of his trembling grasp, had been snatched away in a single moment. Now, with half a decade of the reality of leadership during the worst of times - the true test of a leader, when their country is in peril beyond imagining - Lorenz knows he would not have been equal to the task. In time, yes, he could have grown to be the leader the Alliance needs right now, but there had not been time. As much as he believes in his own capability, Claude was the better man then, even if he could not see it, and he remains the better man now.

Even with a Relic in hand, that remains true. Lorenz knows that might is only part of being a leader, and so that knowledge does not sting as much as it might have once upon a time, but if he lives through this war, he vows to improve in all areas. Once, his aim might have been to live up to the Gloucester name - now, his sights are set higher. He does not simply want to step into the shoes of what it means to be a Gloucester; he wants to redefine his family's contribution to the Alliance - to Fódlan as a whole - to make the Gloucester name something he can be proud of without reservation.

Thyrsus seems to hum in his hands, a sentience that he has long stopped doubting warming the body of the staff against the skin of his palms, and he crosses his room to set it gently on his bedside table. The strange energy emanating from it pulses as Lorenz trails his fingers around the ridge of its head, and he marvels, not for the first time, at how something so small and apparently delicate can be a conduit for so much force and destruction. It is a sacred thing, entrusted to his family generations past by one of the original heroes of Fódlan, and he has seen firsthand what happens when a Relic is put in the wrong hands and used by someone unworthy.

He wonders, drawing his hand away and curling his fingers up into a tight fist, whether Thyrsus has ever found someone bearing the Gloucester Crest unworthy. He wonders if it did, would they go the way of Sylvain Gautier's brother, rendered inhuman by the corruption of his own flesh and mind for his hubris and his desperation? Would the Crest save them, or damn them further for existing and being rejected?

A knock at his door startles him, and he tears his gaze away, forcing his hand to relax before he turns to address the servant that has come to fetch him.

"Your father requests your presence for dinner, my lord."

With his back to Thyrsus, Lorenz inclines his head in acquiescence. "Thank you. I will be along shortly."

The door snicks closed, but rather than tension leaving him, it coils tighter around his shoulders and through his chest. His eyes seek a portrait on the wall, painted when he was only seven years old; he recalls being elated to sit for the artist, his arms crooked importantly around a bouquet of Gloucester roses, doing his very best not to fidget so that he wouldn't upset anyone. How proud his mother had been - _It won't be long before we have your portrait done for the family gallery, Lorenz! You sat so well for this one._ \- and his father's approval, more sparingly given, but intoxicating for it.

He brushes a hand down his front, striding to the door. He wonders if the portrait painted at the outbreak of war does still hang in the hall (morbid, but necessary; if he falls in battle, they will want something to remember him by) and whether or not it still will once he has decided precisely what the Gloucester legacy means to him and how he will choose to uphold it.

Thyrsus thrums behind him as he closes the door. 

Time will tell.


	4. PURPLE COLUMBINE: Redemption/Growth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue at the end borrowed directly from the game in the end of Ch. 13 scene, Verdant Wind route.

In the back of his mind, somehow, he knew it would always come to this.

The ability to straddle the fence during a war, committing fully to neither the country he owed his allegiance nor the one invading it, was not one Lorenz ever hoped to possess. For years he'd convinced himself that his father's stance on relations between Gloucester and the Empire was the only reasonable one; that to challenge the Empire directly would surely lead to even more suffering, even more loss of lives and homes, and so vassalage had been the only true option. He is still convinced that is true, even if with each passing year, he realizes that what he assumed was a stop-gap measure toward the eventual end of reuniting with and supporting the Alliance may just have been the long game toward... well, defection.

He does not want to think of it that way, but after the conversation he'd had with his father at dinner, he knows that to continue to pretend otherwise would be to become complicit in his father's plan. The people of Gloucester have suffered enough in this war, whether directly on the battlefield or because of the consequences of their precarious political state, and he does not pretend to be all-knowing - perhaps this is truly for the best, and he is underestimating his father - but he fears the truth of the matter is that, regardless, his family has failed the people of its territory.

It does not matter whether his father hoped that his hand would not eventually be forced, or whether he planned to join the Empire all along. It is impossible to say which ideal drove his thoughts, and so they must face reality: Hermann Gloucester made a series of decisions, the ones he thought most wise at the time, and in trusting his leadership, Lorenz adopted them as his own, year after year. This most recent order, however, will prove the decisive moment between them.

_Ride to Myrddin and support the Empire. Do what needs to be done at whatever cost._

Hermann had accepted a vassalage because of proximity to the Empire, so Lorenz understood and accepted, because House Gloucester had made no overt moves against the Imperial Army and neither had it turned on the remainder of the Alliance - until now.

Lorenz's appetite had vanished in a moment, already a finicky thing when presented with the rich, fine food that graced his father's table. Until those words were spoken, the illusion of remaining part of the Alliance had remained, but with that damning command even that was lost to him. It would be a very simple thing, too, to obey the order. It would be what is expected at this point, as Adrestia bears down on the rest of the continent - Faerghus' prince dead, Leicester's leader barely capable of managing the infighting of his own country - and yet the thought of doing so sours his stomach.

For five years he has met the Empire in battle and killed; for five years he has watched his allies and his friends _be_ killed. He has exploited the kindness of the subjects who have trusted his father to lead them well, and he does not know how he could ever sleep again if he knowingly took up arms for the people he has spent so many years defending against. He imagines the look on Holst's face if he were to declare support of Edelgard and he is almost sick to his stomach - 

He imagines the sharp, cold gloss that would come into Claude's eyes at his defection, and he has to close his own, one hand braced on the neck of his horse. No matter which path he chooses, he betrays someone -

He betrays Claude, his people, _himself_ , if he sides with the Empire.

He betrays his family if he defies his father, but he could also - if he chooses here to make his stand and the Alliance still falls - 

He will have betrayed his people either way.

Lorenz bows his head, breathing in deeply once, and then mounts his horse.

\--

When the path before him forked and he could choose to ride onward to Myrddin or deviate, he had turned his horse to the west and understood, as he was doing it, that he may never meet his father again as anything but his enemy. An unfortunate reality of war, but more than that, of _choice_ , and he will hold his head high and stand by it even if every mile further from home carves another piece from his already tattered heart. There is a letter tucked against his breast, intended for his mother should he fall in pursuit of his own conscience, and he prays that it need never be sent. He started a letter for his father, too, but the words would simply... not come.

His father would receive a postscript, done in a faintly trembling hand, that could never properly convey the grief - the apology - the _anger_ -

He pushes the thought aside, rounding a curve in the path, and in the distance, he can hear the sound of battle. 

\--

By now, he has no room to be surprised.

Whether it had been hope or desperation that turned him to Garreg Mach, Lorenz had not expected to arrive and find... anyone, truly. Perhaps one or two of his old classmates, if any of them recalled the promise they made to one another what feels like a lifetime ago, but to see all of them? To see the leader of the Alliance himself, surrounded by people shaking off the vestiges of battle and smiling, to see their old professor, long thought dead -

He has no room to be surprised, but he is. He does not, perhaps, have a place here; Hilda calls him on it, eyes large but far from guileless, as she asks him, "Are you going to go back home to your scary father or what?"

The letter against his chest burns, and in a moment, as Claude's eyes slide to him, he realizes the truth of the matter: here, he has a choice. When it comes to this cobbled together army, this group of mismatched, desperate people, he is expected to decide for himself where he stands. There is no command inherent in Claude's gaze, no expectation in the professor's blank stare beyond that of a decision, either way.

_Ride to Myrddin and support the Empire_.

His heart beats painfully, mouth suddenly dry, and he forces himself to meet Hilda's eyes. "We cannot rely on Claude's scheming to lead us to victory."

_Do what needs to be done at whatever cost._

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Claude shift.

"Therefore," he tilts his chin up, a near imperceptible move, "I will remain. It is my duty to ensure that Claude does not worsen the situation in the Alliance."

The words ring hollow on their way out of his mouth, but by the softening of Hilda's eyes, he knows that she sees them for what they are. She understands the expectation that family puts on its heirs; she's seen what it does to Holst, actively flees from its pressure for herself, and yet she is still here. She is making her stand, and so, too, is Lorenz.

"All of us are fighting for a different reason, but we share a common enemy." Claude says, moving to stand at Lorenz's side, his arms crossed over his chest. 

The move feels deliberate and, for just a moment, undeserved; with just a few words, Claude declares to all assembled that they stand on equal footing, fighting for the same cause - and that they are all to be equally trusted. Any indecision Lorenz may have still held dissipates, along with any regret he might have harbored for where he now stands. This, he knows, is where he is meant to be.

"If we don't act, the Empire will crush us eventually. I say we stop them before they have a chance!"

Conversation breaks out among the rest of them, but Lorenz angles his body inward toward Claude, tilting his head in silent gratitude that, to most, would be mistaken as challenge. 

Claude only smiles, swaying closer to bump their shoulders together.


	5. CARNATION: fashion

Garreg Mach Monastery is a very different place during a time of war.

Since making it their headquarters, rubble has been cleared and stone and memories both have been swept outdoors to make way for the new. It feels awkward and lonely to take up space inside his old dorm room, and also a little bit like stealing from someone who is no longer among them; the boy he was when he last attended the Officer's Academy is so far gone from the man he is now that there are days he does not recognize himself. That comes with its own sort of grief, a grief that he feels selfish for indulging when the world is full of tragedy and horror far beyond his own paltry troubles, and so he does his best to push onward. That is all any of them can do, after all: they can put one foot in front of another, lift their weapons, and lay their dead to rest when they must.

Since rejoining Claude, the casualties have been fewer. Their missions are more contained and stealthy, when they can be; Claude strikes to injure at the Empire's vulnerable points, aims for the joint to dislocate the limb rather than crush the heart, and he is both grateful for it and intensely worried that it will not be enough to end this war once and for all. He hopes that it will be, has faith - both in Claude's leadership and in the people who take up arms to support it - that it _can_ be, but there is still that quiet voice in the back of his mind that plagues him. It asks, _W_ _ill this be enough_? and it demands, _If_ _it isn't, will you be able to live with yourself?_

Lorenz has seen so much death in this war, caused so much death; he takes his gloves off at night and sometimes, when he runs his hands through the threads of his hair, his fingers tremble. He wonders if they will ever be capable of gentleness again, if he will ever be able to trust himself to hold something and not wound it - and when he begins to think like that, he has to remind himself to take a breath and step away.

One day, he will. This war will not last forever - he has said that time and again to lift the spirits of others, and it even feels that way, some days. Under Claude's madcap leadership and buoyed by his reckless, inspiring pursuit of victory, each advance into the field of battle peels back another finger of the Emperor's stranglehold on Fódlan. Eventually, they will be able to pry her hands from around the neck of all that they love, and Goddess willing, it will be over. 

He will live to see it, and he makes a promise every day that he dons his armor that he will see to it that so, too, do his friends.

But today is not a day for fighting. Today, his armor is of a different variety, and as he stands before the mirror and fusses with his cravat, he tries to swallow the guilt for this, too. He has to remind himself that the gathering he is going to not the same as the many parties and teas he scorned while he was still trotting along at his father's every order and whim. Genuine feeling brings people together to celebrate the purest, most beautiful thing that could possibly come out of this war, and he will not be dour and depressed on a day that people so dear to him will remember for the rest of their lives. 

Are these the circumstances that either of them would want for their wedding? No, likely not. A joining of hands and hearts and souls should never be overshadowed by the threat of war; two people who love one another should be free to choose and plan how they want to declare that love, and they should have a day of peace and celebration for it that does not feel like it is on borrowed time.

But many things _should be_ and have not been for some time now, and they all must make the best of what they have. There are those who think that a wartime wedding is a frivolity or even, perhaps, an act of desperation, but Lorenz - Lorenz must disagree.

There is something both heartrending and healing in the idea of celebrating a marriage while the path to victory stretches so far before them still. Would he have chosen it for himself, if he had someone he loved as much as his friends love one another? Would he have taken these handful of days of peace between battles and carved the time out of them to pledge himself to another, even knowing that he still might not see that bright new dawn that Claude sometimes speaks of when the hours stretch too long and even he must search for hope, for a bright light to grasp at.

He might have. He smooths his hands down the front of his tunic, the thread of embroidered flowers raised and pressed against his palms, grounding and soothing. It is a terribly romantic and defiant idea - to look into the face of a future so uncertain and declare: _This, I am certain of. This I choose to do now, and in the presence of people I trust, I promise forever_.

"From your lips to the Goddess' ear," he murmurs, turning away from the mirror and striding to the door. 

It does not take him long to get to his friend's room, empty as the halls are in preparation for the festivities. He rests his hand flat against the door, listening for the sound of voices inside, but hears none. He knocks and waits for a soft voice to float out to him, inviting him inside, before he slips in and quickly closes the door behind him.

Marianne is a _vision_. His smile breaks free, honest and unhindered for the first time in longer than he can remember, to see her standing in the middle of the room with her hands fluttering over the fabric of her wedding dress. It is simple, far simpler than any gown he has ever seen a bride wear, but even without the concessions that must have been made for style due to the war, he cannot imagine her choosing to wear anything else. It is elegant and tasteful, expertly fitted by hands far more clever than Lorenz's - he is willing to bet Leonie, as handy as she is with so many things - and when their eyes meet, hers shine.

"Lorenz. Oh, I'm glad it's you. Do I look all right?"

She lifts her arms and turns in a small circle, her sleeves trailing like ripples on the water's surface, just as quiet and soft. His throat tightens and heat pricks the backs of his eyes, his voice robbed from him for just a moment.

This moment. _This_ , and a thousand other moments like it, are what they are fighting for. For beauty, for joy, for a future that can hold both of those things and protect them no matter the cost.

"You," he begins, crossing to her and reaching out to cup her cheek, emotion heavy in his voice, "are Beauty herself, lit from within and burning bright enough to light every dark. You are incandescent, my dear."

He rubs his thumb over the rise of her cheek, catching the tear that slips free as she closes her eyes and turns into his hand. Once, he'd almost hoped that there might be a future where they stood just as this - a man and a woman, offering everything to one another and asking for everything in return - but this moment is better than that fledgling dream. As much as he loves her and is loved by her, it is with the enduring grace of a friend, and he knows that as surely as he knows anything, because he has now seen what she looks like in love.

"I feel silly for bringing you this now," he continues, reaching into his breast pocket to pull out a cloth-wrapped bundle. "As you are perfect as you are. I thought, though, that if you wanted a nod to tradition, I could offer you this."

"Lorenz," she whispers, eyes wide, as he carefully unfolds the cloth and reveals a necklace, light catching a violet stone set amid curling vines. "Oh, I couldn't. That's so beautiful."

He takes her hand and places it over the top of it, gently pressing it toward her. "It pales in comparison to you, but I thought that, perhaps, you would be missing something old. This has been in my family for a long time. It is my deepest wish that you will take it and make it part of yours now. Please don't cry, Marianne."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and to his surprise, she flings her arms around him and draws him into a hug. A laugh is startled out of him, perilously wet-sounding, as he returns the embrace, very careful not to wrinkle her or turn his face into her hair as he wants to. It wouldn't do to muss one of the brides just before the big event, after all.

"You are the best and truest friend I could ask for," Marianne whispers, lips brushing his cheek. "Thank you. It's perfect."

They stand like that for several moments, equally overcome, until a knock interrupts their sentiment. They draw back from one another, both swiping beneath their eyes, as Claude leans into the room with his hands braced on either side of the door.

"Hey, no tears! We've got a wedding to get to." His gaze bounces between them, his smile radiant, and Lorenz can't help but return it. "Hilda's sent me to fetch you both on pain of death, and frankly, I'm going to be the one ending up in tears if I don't. She's scarier than her brother."

Claude's voice rolls over them, and Lorenz takes advantage of the time offered - intentionally, he knows, because Claude is a considerate man once in a blue moon - to regain his composure. Once he has himself in check, he places a hand at Marianne's elbow and begins to guide her out the door.

"Shall we? Your bride awaits."


	6. EDELWEISS: Loyalty

The aftermath of another one of Claude's rousing speeches is the same as it ever is, lately. He tells them that what they plan to do verges on the impossible, that it is a risk he would begrudge none of them not taking - that some or all of them may die, even if he doesn't say it in so many words - and he offers them an out. It is a unique and idiotic aspect of his leadership, Lorenz has long thought, even as he understands that it is also the most compelling thing _about_ him as a leader. There has never been a moment along the path that they've all walked together where they were coerced, where anything more than fidelity freely given was asked for, and that is a remarkable thing.

Among them, none of their former classmates have left. Soldiers have, along the way; they've stopped in villages on their marches and, too heart-heavy to carry on, they've lost people one at a time. They lost an entire battalion only a week past and Claude did not bat an eye at them - he thanked the men and women for the time they had spent in service to the Alliance and he wished them well, promised that he would still do everything in his power to see the war ended and their village safe, and moved on.

Reckless. Irresponsible, in a war of numbers where they are already at a disadvantage, and at the same time, incredibly admirable. There is no one who follows Claude into battle who did not choose it, and each day that they lift up arms for his cause, they make the decision to do so anew. There is a power there that cannot be underestimated, a strength that has carried them through this war and will, Goddess willing, see them come out the other side the victors.

They march on Enbarr in the morning. When Lorenz had put his lot in with Claude, he had made his peace with the idea that it was for better or worse - that he could very well have been making the wrong decision and he could die bitterly disappointed in himself for letting down the people he had sworn his whole life to protect - but now that he is faced with the prospect of the opposite, it is almost overwhelming.

He has always wanted to believe that this war could be won by them, but some anxious, pessimistic part of his heart held him back, whispering that he should not get too comfortable with the idea that everything might turn out in their favor after all. To do so seemed like folly, because he knows well what hubris will do to even the best laid of plans, and so a little doubt had been almost a comfort in a way. Now, though, there is nothing left to gamble on: this is the final confrontation, pitting their might against Edelgard's now that they have her cornered in her own capital, and there is nothing left to lose but... everything.

They have come too far to lose everything, and so Lorenz will allow himself confidence. He will allow himself hope and assurance that this battle, whether it is waged for four hours or four weeks, will be the end of the terrible beginning that Edelgard's bloodthirsty ambition has brought upon the country that he loves so well and so dearly. However it ends, they have all determined that after this battle, it _will_ end. There is relief in that.

Until dawn breaks, however, he is at a loss. He knows that he should attempt sleep, but it will be impossible. Over the years, he's managed to resign himself to sleeping in places and positions that he would have never been able to tolerate before circumstances necessitated them, but he cannot say that his sleep has been very restful. Since he knows that his mind won't quiet tonight, he may as well do something useful.

He intends to go to his room and tend to his armor, and he does make it there, but something has him pausing outside the door, hand against the wall and his head turned toward his neighbor's room. Light spills out from the crack beneath the door, soft and muted in the way that only candlelight ever is. After that rousing speech, it doesn't surprise him that Claude isn't resting either - in some ways, they are very alike, to make up for all the ways they are so vastly different - but he wouldn't have expected him to be in his room. Roaming, perhaps, to check on the others, or just to settle his mind before the decisive battle, because for all his ease and confidence, Lorenz knows Claude well enough by now to spot the subtle tells of his own worry.

The floorboards creak beneath him as he continues down the hall, his fingertips grazing the wood paneling that separates their two rooms. It is the last time, perhaps, they will ever have a night of even something resembling repose, and it occurs to him that Claude may want to be alone.

It also occurs to him that alone is the last thing he should be, and that Claude, so busy looking out for the rest of them, will neglect himself to the very end.

Lorenz knocks briskly, and after a few beats of silence, he says through the door, "Either you are asleep and have left your candle burning, which I will need to enter to extinguish for your own good, or you are awake and ignoring me, which is an appalling lack of manners I will need to scold you for to your face. It is up to you to decide which."

The door opens after a few moments to Claude's amused and resigned expression, and he is, in a word, half dressed. "Come on in, Lorenz. Give me a second."

Lorenz considers abruptly that he might have actually been trying to sleep - perhaps he was wrong after all - but Claude only waves him in and turns back around. Lorenz steps into the borrowed room, allowing the door to click quietly closed behind him, and studies Claude's back as he moves throughout the room.

"If you are intending to sleep soon, please forgive the intrusion," Lorenz says, folding his hands before his waist. Claude plucks a tunic top up from the pile of clothing at the foot of his bed, and the sight of casual disarray is so like his old room at Garreg Mach that Lorenz is filled with a sharp, sweet pang of nostalgia. That is another place he expects to never see again, regardless of how this battle ends. He'd deliberately left nothing personal behind, not even the letter for his mother - that is still carried with him into every battle, just in case. "I only need a moment."

"Nah, I probably won't be able to sleep. You just caught me after a bath, that's all." Claude turns, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, and his expression is easy and open. Earnest. _Kind_. "Everything all right?"

"I-" Is everything all right? He flattens a hand against his stomach and breathes in deeply, considering his answer. No, of course it is not - nothing has been all right since they all set foot inside the Holy Mausoleum so many years ago, and perhaps for much, much longer before that, but in this moment? 

Why is he here?

\- ah, yes. For Claude.

There is concern creeping into Claude's expression now, and he drops his hand. "Lorenz?"

"I wanted to say something to you," he says in a rush, heat crawling into his face for the abrupt admission. Claude looks surprised, but he waits him out, patient to a fault. "Before we march on Enbarr. While I still have the chance, I suppose."

The concern shifts deeper, Claude's brows drawing together and his mouth pursing for just a moment. In the space of time it takes Lorenz to blink, however, the affable mask is back up, and Claude reaches for him to clasp his shoulder in a friendly way. "Don't talk like that. Didn't you hear my rousing speech? We're both going to come out the other side of this, Lorenz. We already agreed on that, unless you've forgotten our heartfelt conversation-"

"I have not," Lorenz interrupts him, a blanket of calm settling over him. He lifts a hand to cover Claude's, his eyes unerring on his face. "I have not forgotten a word. Listen to me a moment, if you will. It would mean a great deal to me."

He removes Claude's hand from his shoulder, but does not release it. Instead, he hooks his fingers around Claude's and brings his other hand up, settling it over his knuckles and holding.

"I'm listening." Claude does not even blink.

Lorenz looks down at their joined hands, his hair slipping over his shoulder as he bows his head, and then meets his gaze again. "There are things you have not told me, things that I know you will not." Claude's hand jerks minutely between both of his, but Lorenz's grip remains firm. "Whether you make the argument that you cannot or it is that you simply do not trust me, I find that I no longer care. I accept this, and I want you to know that I trust _you_. Implicitly, irrevocably, and, if I am to be honest, irritatingly, at times."

A smile flickers over his face, but it isn't mirrored on Claude's.

"When you could have doubted me and my loyalty, you chose to take me at my word. You put your life, and more tellingly, the lives of all those who follow you, in my hands each time we ride to battle together, and that does not go unnoticed. You give me your back in your private chambers," he adds, voice thickening, and presses on. "You have never asked more of me than I was ready to give. For all these reasons, Claude von Riegan, I do not need your secrets."

Slowly, with Claude as his captive audience, Lorenz brings his hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the rise of his knuckles. 

"You have my fidelity regardless."

He releases Claude's hand finally, taking one step backward as he does. "That is all. I will let you rest, if you can."

Before he can get too far, however, Claude's hand shoots out, fingers curling around the back of Lorenz's neck. His grip is somehow gentle and arresting at once, and Lorenz's eyes go wide, his mouth parted slightly in surprise. 

"Are you finished?" Claude asks, his thumb pressing into the soft skin at the base of his ear. "Not that I'm rushing you, but... I just want to make sure I got it all before I say my piece."

He blinks, slow. "I... yes. That is all I wanted to say. Claude, what are you doing?"

Though Claude applies only the barest of pressure, Lorenz finds himself bowing forward not entirely of his own accord, his pulse scattering as Claude's fingers slide into his hair. They mold to the shape of his head, a familiar and foreign cradle at once. Though he sees it coming, Lorenz is still somehow surprised by the way that their mouths slide together in the most chaste of kisses. His eyes close as feeling unfurls in his chest, the slow-bloom of a flower that's been holding its breath and waiting for just the right moment for far too long, and Lorenz could almost laugh.

Almost, but he doesn't; he grips Claude's hip and pulls him closer, parting the seam of his lips to deepen the kiss - the first, quite possibly the only - and he allows himself this moment to simply _be_. To sink into the warmth of a kiss freely given, to want and be wanted in return, even knowing that there is still far too much unsaid for this moment to be anything but that - a moment.

They trade breaths in the quiet, Lorenz's forehead pressed to Claude's. 

"You mentioned you had something to say?" He asks, relaxing his grip finger by finger.

Claude angles his head upward, their mouths brushing together once more. "That was all. For the moment."

Lorenz hums, sliding his hand up Claude's chest and centering it there, imagining that he can feel his heart's beat beneath his palm. He presses back and Claude goes willingly, his eyes and mouth both soft. 

"I find that to be... unsatisfactory," he says, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip. "I have changed my mind: I demand that you explain yourself fully when this is all over."

Claude tips his head back and laughs. The line of his throat has never looked more beautiful than it does in candlelight.

Tomorrow, he'll hold this image in his heart and it will keep him warm through the final push.

And then, for better or worse, it will be over.


	7. LAVENDER: Romance

Against all odds, not only do they see victory in Enbarr, they survive a battle with the Fell King Nemesis of the legends of old. If Lorenz had not been in the swamps himself, breathing in the acrid air and looking into the eyes of men long dead, he would never have believed that such a thing could be possible - and he knows not how to explain it to anyone. More than that, he doesn't think he would like to try.

With the war done and all of Fódlan moving into the slow crawl of recovery, he wants little more than to close that chapter of his life. His father has been deposed and preparations are already underway for Lorenz to take his seat, which leaves him very little time to focus on much else, even if he wanted to. It is not the way he would have wished it, but it has been a lesson hard learned that he will have to adapt to a great many things that he would not wish to. If there is one thing that Lorenz Hellman Gloucester is very good at, it is carrying on despite circumstances not conforming to his whims.

Celebrations roll across the country in waves, villages embracing their war-hero children, siblings, parents, lovers. Lorenz carries his head high and performs at each and every one he is expected to attend. He turns circles on the dance floor and, depending on the company, sometimes even genuinely enjoying himself as they march back across the continent and closer to home. He parts ways with friends and wishes them well, infinitely glad for those who get to return home to the love and comfort of their family, even as a tiny seed of envy grows in his breast.

His family will never be the same. That is a consequence of the choices he made, and he would make all of them again even knowing that his father will never forgive him for it. Hermann Gloucester's anger and derision is simply something he will have to survive; his father is, at least, alive to be angry. That is what matters most to Lorenz.

It does make the long march home lonely, however. To know that he is returning to contempt at best from his father and heartbreak from his mother is a difficult thing to cope with. He has done so much in this war that he is not proud to claim in the name of necessity - he has ended lives, retreated from battles he bitterly did not want to concede victory in, turned the other cheek on suffering because there simply was not the time or resources to address it - but this strikes a blow much heavier, somehow.

Perhaps because wartime atrocities, though they should never be forgotten, will no longer be committed by his hands. Lorenz's family will be fractured for the rest of his life, and even if he wanted to find some way to repair it, he knows that to be impossible. What his father would need from him would be to turn back the hands of time and never join forces with Claude at that decisive battle, and Lorenz's conscience could not allow that. So, this is the natural consequence of his actions, justly and fairly earned.

He has made peace with it. He is happy for his friends who will have warm arms to embrace them at the end of their perilous journeys, and he will content himself with taking Gloucester's seat at the Roundtable and seeing through all his good intentions for reform, rebuilding, and renovation that he promised himself he would if he lived through the war. That he must do it alone is unfortunate, but not wholly unexpected.

Seeing Hilda and Marianne off is the most difficult, he thinks. He does not resent them for the joy they found in each other during the war - anything but, honestly. That he would want something like that for himself is a separate matter entirely, and he refuses to allow his own envy to brew resentment for two of his dearest friends. They have pledged themselves to one another and, in the bright new dawn that Claude has so rapturously spoken of for Fódlan, they will be allowed to embrace their bliss and carve a new path for their future. 

He had told himself that it was irresponsible to seek a bride during the war, and that was true for any number of reasons, not the least being the sheer volume of work he needed to do on who he was as a man. Until he felt like he could offer a version of himself worth having, he had stepped back and away from his pursuit of a wife, and in doing so, his relationships with so many people became deeper and more intimate. His friendship with Marianne he would not trade for anything - the closeness he has to Hilda now, to Leonie, to Lysithea, are all so cherished for precisely what they are: genuine _friendship_.

When he stopped thinking of every woman in terms of what she would bring to a union with him, he was able to see them clearly for the first time - and the knowledge that it took so long shames him even now. 

And so, romance has been so far from his mind for so long that it quite crept up on him, truth be told.

That he has given his heart to a man who cannot hold it is Lorenz's own doing, and just as he has determined that he cannot indulge in regret for those things that he had to do during the war, he refuses to regret what he chose. Or _who_ he chose, he supposes.

It is for the best that he still has no intention of seeking marriage, at least not until Fódlan is settled and he will have the time to devote to being a truly loving, worthy partner. From the moment Claude's hand circled the back of his neck and realization slid into place, unwelcome and thrilling at the same time, Lorenz has known that there would be no future between them. How could there be? Lorenz loves Gloucester too well to enter into any sort of marriage that would see it absorbed into a superior title, and so even if he were to entertain the idea of the like with Claude, it could never progress that far.

Even still, he loves too dearly and too deeply to not want to marry eventually. It has, in fact, been such a pivotal part of his plans for his future life for so long that even a half decade spent in pursuit of anything but has not been enough to curb the desire to one day settle down with a partner. That he has found no one as enthralling and infuriating as he finds Claude - and is not likely to in this lifetime - he has accepted, because there is little else to be done. The war might be over, but with one ending comes a new beginning, and as always, sacrifices must be made.

They'd spoken the night prior, he and Claude, on the topic of new beginnings. Where Lorenz had assumed he would simply be taking up the title of Count and governing his own territory, Claude had finally let slip his true plans, or at least, a given measure of them. He will be leaving Fódlan, and in doing so, leaving the Alliance in Lorenz's hands to lead, wrapped up in a tattered bow and looking like _almost_ everything he has ever wanted. No one else knows yet, but by the conclusion of this party, they will.

At the thought, Lorenz snags a glass of wine from a passing servant, bringing it to his mouth. Hilda is going to make a _scene_ when she finds out.

As though summoned by thought, Claude comes to stand beside him, their arms brushing briefly. In a moment, Lorenz is thrown back to a time that feels like years ago, to a party three times as glamorous as the one they are attending now and easily ten times as cold. He holds his mouthful of wine on his tongue, savoring the taste, and waits for him to break the silence.

He doesn't, though. Music swells and couples take to the floor, and they simply stand there, side by side, until Lorenz huffs an impatient sigh.

"Yes, Claude?" Where there was once poorly concealed regard, it is now bare in his voice. "Surely even you have no more surprises to unleash on me at the last moment."

His companion laughs. "No. Nothing like that. What, you don't believe I just want to spend time with you?"

It's a close enough likeness to a question asked long ago - _How do you know I don't just want to dance with you?_ \- that Lorenz can't help but smile. Sentiment swells in his chest, aided no doubt by the glass of wine he's already enjoyed, and he shakes his head.

"You have always been a perverse sort of man," he says agreeably, hiding his smile in another sip of wine. "I would put nothing past you anymore."

"Perverse and determined," Claude returns, stepping around to face Lorenz. The smile on his face is full of mischief, and it makes him look years younger - charmingly so, irresistibly so. He looks... happy. "I believe last time we were in this position, I told you to save me a spot on your dance card."

He sets his wine glass down, his own smile curving honest and bright. "And do you feel lucky, then, Your Grace?"

The ripple of exasperation over his face makes Lorenz laugh. "Ugh, don't call me that, Lorenz."

This time, when Claude offers his hand, Lorenz takes it. He draws him in, stepping into position as naturally as if they have danced together a thousand times in their lives and have the luxury of a thousand more stretching before them. In time to the beat, Lorenz leads them onto the floor, joining the other couples twirling about as seamlessly as though it were choreographed. 

A hand curls around his heart, squeezing very slowly.

"Very soon I will no longer have the opportunity to," he murmurs, voice pitched low for Claude's ears only. "Forgive me for making the most of the moments I have."

Silence cradles them for a time, heavy with the things that cannot be said as well as those that shouldn't, while they move about the floor. Lorenz catches the professor's eye and immediately has to look away again; compassion and understanding right now, while he holds Claude in his arms for what could very possibly be the last time, feels like too much.

He guides Claude into a turn, winding an arm around his waist and pulling him in close as the musical number softens. In his embrace, Claude is pliant and trusting; Lorenz's hand slides to the base of his neck, long fingers curled gently into the soft waves of his hair as he leans into a side lunge and slowly lowers him. Claude's arms come up, winding around his shoulders, and Lorenz gently tilts him backward. His hair fans over Claude's chest, a dizzying visual tease of something more they might have enjoyed if they were very different men in a very different time.

Their gazes lock, time suspended for just a moment. It is another snapshot of a memory that Lorenz will lock away deeply and hold close; another stolen moment, all the more precious for being fleeting.

Claude blinks, and Lorenz rights them both, his lips brushing Claude's temple as the song fades away.

"Was it worth the wait?" Lorenz asks, her fingertips skimming down Claude's back, eyes closed.

Claude's response is pressed into the curve of his jaw, warm and sweet and achingly sad. "Every second of it."

*

The next time they see one another, years have passed.

They fall into each other's arms as though it has been both a lifetime and no time at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading along! I challenged myself to do a chapter for every day of Lorenz week and weave them into a fic, and I almost can't believe I actually finished it. It's been a joy to write and I'm not done with Lorenz (or Claude!) by any means, so hopefully there will be more fic content from me soon. 
> 
> Catch me on Twitter @ itsrosencrantz! I'm gay and like friends.


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